


throwing pebbles and making ripples

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Outsider, Time Travel, Zutara Week 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:09:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were tales in the Northern Water Tribe, of women like Katara. Girls who woke up after a night of great moonlight, the sort that called even to non-benders, with sharp eyes and quick hands, wisdom in their tongues. In the North, warriors would come to their family and take them to the wild, to leave them to be one wth the ice and the sea.</p><p>Kanna had been taught it was kindness; women could not not live well with such power, nor did they have the strong spirit to stand the weight of moon-touches. As if La herself were not a woman! "<br/> </p><p>The spirits work in mysterious ways, and time is an illusion. So are pants, but time more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raisindeatre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisindeatre/gifts).



 

Captain Jee had served under many commanders in his thirty two years as a fire bender in the Fire Nation army, and then the navy. Prince Iroh had been his commanding officer for nearly a decade, two years after his recruitment until the Battle of Ba Sing Se. After he retired Jee had passed from post to post. His current assignment in an old, sad excuse for a ship under the the rule of an exiled prince had come about as the result of one of many differences of opinion between himself and his superior. He supposed it was unevitable.

The ship had left Caldera with its course set to the Northern Air Temple seven weeks ago. In that time they had had to stop for repairs and once for the service of a local healer, when the Prince's condition worsened considerably. Prince Iroh, there to accompany his nephew, had been most worried. Jee remembered well every time his children had suffered fever and did not begrudge either of them.

The Prince himself was a mystery. The particular matter of his exile was unknown, though everyone knew that he had done something to dishonor his Father and been punished as warranted it. To be sure, it was agree by many, a scar and a bad eye were little to lose in the face of disrespecting the Fire Lord. 

Jee watched him, though. Prince Zuko heated his Unce's tea, followed the paces and traditions Jee knew Iroh preferred. At least once a day they shared a cup of tea over a pai sho board, steam rising over their pensive faces, and in those times it was easy to see the resemblance between them.

In all ways he was a devoted nephew, affectionate and respectful. His smiles, while ugly and small, were true. He was a decent leader, stern but sensible enough to know where his youth would hinder him and showing a genuine care for his crew that shine through graceless acts.

Every morning the Prince got up early, as early as most sailors did. He walked into the deck carrying a pot of tea and sat staring at the sea, the rolling waves, until Prince Iroh roused himself. In the time before he spoke with the crew, first haltingly, then with greater ease. They stared at his bandages and either looked down or up defiantly, but in time they got used to the Prince that asked the about their careers, their families, their interests. Sometimes it was so awkward it was painful, and sometimes he was so clearly in physical pain from the burn that it was since-worthy, but he preserved through. He was very good at enduring, was the prince. He seemed to have practice at it. 

Jee's own turn was an experience, and did nothing to lessen his questions. He'd reported for duty many times before, and even befriended superior officers, and years of experience made him expect the paces of two officers of different ranks that would have to interact for long periods of time starting a rapport. Certainly none of them had been so young, nor had they looked at him like the prince did. 

"Captain Jee."

"Sir."

The Prince nodded at the seat beside him. Jee hesitated, but it would be half an hour before Prince Iroh got up. 

Wordlessly, the Pricne started serving his tea. It was not so strange, as his uncle too had little care for rank when it came to sharing the wonders of the beverage, but he lacked Iroh's subtility. This was a gesture of some sort. once both cups were filled the interrogation started. 

Jee had been expecting this. The questions weren't surprising: _how long had he served? where did he start? how had he met Prince Iroh? where was he from? did he know the other crew members? were they trustworthy? was he trustworthy?_ Not so clearly, but nearly. 

At one point he asked what he had warranted to end up in this sun-forsaken quest. Jee had been surprised by the blunt admission of the expedition's odd, for it was known the prince was nothing if not driven. And in any case, if the prince wanted to know he could have read the reports.

If there were reports. The ship and crew had been assembled in a hurry, but surely someone would have passed information to the prince? Jee couldn't remember seeing such files, but they ought to exist somewhere.

"Honestly, if you would, Captain." The Prince ordered, and Jee obeyed. 

"I served as a Leiutenant under Sergenat Han of the Navy branch in the Western Earth Kingdom routes. At one point he was made interim leader of a seaside village. His treatment of the locals was unnecessary harsh and violent, considering their general lack of resistance and morale. At one point I brough my misgivings to his attention. As he did nothing to better the situation I sought to make contact with Prince Iroh, whose fairness I knew, but was found out and delegated to this ship."

"You did well." The Prince said roughly, and turned away. They sat staring at the ocean as the sky took on a brighter blue. 

Prince Zuko wasn't surprised. He _was_ displeased, however much he sough to hide his clenched fists, Jee was tempted to think he did not like such a tale of disrespect, but he remembered the nephew and the uncle, the whispered tales of the Fire Lord's extreme punishments. The bandages, still yellow with infection, creased with his frown.

 The Prince  was not gifted with much subtility, and regardless, he did not need it. Jee could understand that in a person, and respect it in an officer. Even one that was so clearly hiding something. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://searchingforserendipity25.tumblr.com)


	2. kanna

 

  
Kanna had her doubts and suspicions, but she knew something was wrong by the way he granddaughter cooked.

Katara, Tui and La bless her, was no exceptional cook, simply a practiced one. She tended to think that everyone else would like what she liked, too much seaprunes and not enough salt. Which was just as well, since the times when the Southern Water Tribe were the greatest exporters of salt were long gone. Only now there was more salt in the Tribe's storage than there had been in decades. Katara spent her days at it, painstakingly lifting her arms high and separating salt from water in small globes. It was slow work, careful. The women of the Water Tribe were patient by nature and necessity, but there was something uncanny about the focused slant of Katara's brows, her even breaths.

Salt refinement was not a craft for a child. Kanna remembered well being Katara's age and craning her head to watch the men at it, and how the apprentices, easily half again her age, blundered their way with broken globes of water and failed to recognize the mineral inside the water.

Katara had no such difficulties. Every morning she went out on a kayak, complaining Sokka in tow, bringing back boatfuls of fish at a time. At night they returned, and as Sokka brought the fish to the Tribe and the women prepared it, she walked back towards the waterside, bringing up salt one careful pile at a time.

And later, when the tents kept the sleeping tribe women and children warm and slow, Katara would escape once more to the sea, and create great waves and ribbons and spear, the sort Kanna had not seen the like in decades. The sort Katara would have no way to know, much way perfect and master so well. 

Kanna kept watch over her granddaughter, hidden behind a rise of ice, and thought about the way Katara fought, so stern and sure. She had always had had a defender's heart, her girl, tending both towards healing and fighting. She had never seen it so sharp and knowledgeable before. 

Kanna had known, then. She had not understood, but she had known.

There were tales in the Northern Water Tribe, of women like Katara. Girls who woke up after a night of great moonlight, the sort that called even to non-benders, with sharp eyes and quick hands, wisdom in their tongues. These girls were always benders, powerful ones. In the North, people were encouraged to tell the guards if they suspected there was such a witch among them. Warriors would come to their family and take them to the wild, to leave them to be one wth the ice and the sea.

Kanna had been taught it was kindness; women could not not live well with such power, nor did they have the strong spirit to stand the weight of moon-touches. As if La herself were not a woman! As if men could speak of powers they did not have or understand. 

Sometimes, old bitterness towards her first people rose up in her as if she were young and wild again. 

In the South, those women were diefied and glorified instead. They were the only ones to go forth on the battleground, the ones that lead the kayaks in night attack and the ones the Tribe went silent to hear sing at celebrations. Figures of myth, the stories the elders told children on long moonless nights. 

She could tell Sokka remembered those stories. He looked at his sister differently now, confused and bitter from having his role as protector of the Tribe usurped. And wary. He did not trust her as he had once, and it wounded them both. It wounded Kanna as well, but it was her place to mitigate the damage before Katara decided to leave the village or Sokka accused her of being a demon. 

 Katara confided in her one long summer day, as they sewed dresses together by the fire. Her needle broke sharp and even stitches without her looking at it, too busy giving voice to her grievances.

"We can both do different things, why does he have to be so stubborn? He's being such a _boy_ about this!"

 _He's being such a_ child, she could tell that was what Katara meant. For a moment her heart throbbed for the sweet, sad girl her granddaughter had been and would never be again. It was a strange grief, but true nevertheless. 

It was the most she had heard of her granddaughter in a long time. Katara was both slower and more cutting with her words now. They had never properly sat down to speak of what had happened to her, what she knew: you did not ask for the knowledge of a moon-touched. You listened, and followed, and aided, but you did not ask or speak of it. Words, especially words by the water, had power. 

"Have you told Sokka that? He is not used to sharing his responsibilities, and you know how much pride he takes in them."

"I do not want his responsibilities. I want to help as much as I can, my way."

"Then show him that."

Katara put down her dress and got to her feet with a huff. Whatever changes had occurred in her, that stubborn look Kanna had passed down her line was the same. "I will."

She did not come back, either with her brother or alone. When Kanna went to get them for dinner, she found them pacing near the edge of the ice. Sokka was walking on the very last of the ice, arms cartwheeling even as he continued to speak, and when he looked like he was going to fall Katara rose a arm from the snow. He gave her concern an unimpressed look and tossed the snow at her. 

Katara spluttered, wiping snow from her face. Even from the distance she could hear her, "Oh, you're _on_." 

Her son's children were most willful, but she would not have them any other way. They would come back home together again, dripping wet and laughing, young despite their complicated ages, and Kanna's heart would soar with unfamiliar hopes.

Until then, she waited, patient as moonlight.  

 

 


	3. iroh

 

"Nephew, there you are!" Iroh puffed towards Zuko, nearing his place by the ledge. It leads to a truly frightful fall so he walked slowly, sandals testing the ground in case it failed to hold his weight. This high in the craggy mountain chain there was more open air than rock. The wind pulled at their robes and howled, howled.

"I was worried you might have gotten lost. Private Gao took a wrong turn and ended by a cliff. This place has the architecture of a maze!"

Zuko did not turn around, but he shifted to make space for his uncle. A courtesy, if one knew where to look for. His nephew had plenty of those. "It doesn't want us here."

Zuko's voice had changed after the Agni Kai. Once childish high and prone to breaking in embarrassing moments, it was now a deep raspy tone. Smoke, and even more so after a good warm cup of tea. He spoke quieter, his words clearer and more paced. Better chosen, with a forethought he was ashamed to admit not having believed him capable of.

"I imagine you may be right." Iroh conceded.

Iroh steadied his breath with many a year of fire bending control. Beside him Zuko breathed in tandem, steady in, steady out.

His nephew had not had any difficulty striding across the crumbling temple. Indeed, his feet never found a broken tile, and he exhibited a remarkable amount of spacial awareness for someone who had never had any particular interest in the Air Nomads and their ways.

That had changed. Much had changed in too little a time. It left Iroh uneasy and hopeful, anticipation rising in the back of his throat.

Careful, making a high stakes gamble, Iroh said, "They would have good reason to hound here halls after death, and better yet to not want us here."

From a distant hall they heard the song if stone falling and crewmen jeering. After a moment Zuko turned to his uncle.

"Yes." He agreed half-mindedly. His eyes were far away, looking at the sky and squinting at the wind. "I understand that now."

Then he looked down at Iroh. Iroh had never been much used to his nephew's smiles, mostly because he wasn't there often enough when he was little. And after Ursa's disappearance Zuko had turned from a nervous but enthusiastic child into a young man with sad eyes and stiff back. And Iroh, grieved and healing slowly, had done far too little to help him. 

Zuko's back was always stiff now, and he was often sad-eyed, but there was more to it than that. His smiles had discomfited Iroh for some time until he noticed that they were very much like his own.

"You need not worry, Uncle. I shall find the Avatar, and when the time comes I will make the right choice."

Iroh blinked slowly, dragon-like. Zuko continued to smile, knowing and wry and looking much too weighted down for his age. Whatever that was.

Suddenly, Iroh smiled back. His laugh was deep and rumbled down Zuko's back from the arm he'd pressed against his shoulders.

"Oh, my nephew. I never doubted you would. You're a good soul, I know." And an old one, but there was no need of voicing that. They knew.

Zuko heard it too. He relaxed by small fractions until he was leaning in him, like he'd done in the height of his fever, when his screams had turned from grunts to indistinguishable names. The medic had called it strange uttering of a sick boy, but even then Iroh had had his doubts. The Spirit World had been restless, and his nephew's eyes had been so relieved when they found him, so joyful.

"Is this the Spirit World?" Zuko had asked. And Iroh had held his hand and said that no, Zuko still had much to live for, that he should rest now, that he would be there when he woke up.

That had been then. This was now, after months at sea, of watching his quiet nephew become both quieter and louder. Iroh had expected the anger, but when it came it was in short bursts and infrequent. He'd expected the listlessness, but it had disappeared as the burns turned to scars. He'd expected the dreams, but every time he followed the screams to his nephew's room he was already settling in to meditate, incense burning in the cabin.

Zuko sighed against his shoulder without letting out any sparks. Masterful control, that, and so second nature, Iroh marveled and wondered.

Above them but still too close for comfort an hawk screeched and changed currents. One of its feathers freed himself from one wide wing, fluttering down and down the whispering chasm. 

The Temple is scoured from top to bottom, searched for clues of the Avatar's whereabouts. Nothing is found, and Prince Zuko does not appear particularly surprised or dissapointed, only resolute.

They make for South in the morrow.

 


	4. suki

The mist comes on a starless night, and the interlopers with it.

Suki almost missed it. She doesn't, because her eyes are keen and unwavering and she is of Kyoshi. She knows how to keep watch on the world from her spot in the island, keeping vigil on the watch tower hidden among the trees. It is night, one without light at that, and more than that a test. Suki knew Biyu meant for her to become the next leader of the Kyoshi Warriors. As it was she had already stepped up to many of the duties of the position, since a stray Fire Nation ship had come to disagreements on the mainland. The Kyoshi had received a hawk asked for assistance from the head of the village, and arrived right on time for the worst of the rain.

Two of their sister's had fallen and eight more been wounded, including Biyu, whose burn had lead to an infection in her left leg. She used clutches now, and word was that her wife the carpenter was building her a cane with hidden knives, but it meant Suki had to step up her game since she meant to give up her fans soon. Her people were looking up to her now, tentatively but hopeful, and she was not going to fail them.

And that meant not falling asleep, and sighting anyone coming towards the island.

Suki squinted though the old lenses, a reliq from better, wealthier times. There it was: a small both, noth the skiffs the islanders used or the metal husks of the Fire Nation, but a Water Tribe kayak, look and sleek as a swordfish-eel. She remembers when the last kayaks bypassed the island, warriors clad in grays and blues going to join the rebellion further north. They'd known better than to test Kyoshi's neutrality.

Suki remembers respecting them, and pitying them, and wanting to sail away with them.

Those sailing in the lone kayak do not know to pass by, or of they do they do not care. They tend the waves differently than the others had, however. She can spy only one paddle, and one of them stand up, not very tall but straigh. At first Suki thought they were stopping themselves from falling, but no: the movements were deliberate, far too slow. Like the passage of night mist, or seawater softening the shore.

A waterbender from the South. Finally, again.

Suki awakens Chen, tells her to keep an eye on the approaching boat and runs towards Biyi's house.

Soon, the island was thrumming with the signs of activities. The lights in the rooms of the daughter's of the house are turned up, clothes and fans rustling into place. In the forest walkways leaves were resettled by the youngest recruits. Makeup was applied, white ghostly in the darkness.

Suki gathered with Biyu, helped her direct some of the other warriors further back, create an invisible net around the beach. They wait for the first lumbering steps of strangers.

Except they did not come. The kayak pulls over, waves lapping at the wood and buoying it towards the shore. The sailors, two that they can see, sit still and do not step on land. They are waiting.

There was silence. the wind stirred the trees and the dune-grass and the waves, somewhere unseen. The sea was still, barely rippled. Suki gripped the handles of her fans and willed herself not to sweat. This was a monstrous quiet everyone in the island knew well - the lake, before the Unagi breached the surface and cried out its hunger.

From the boat, a hand clutching undyed wool, or maybe fur of some sort of polar animal: every shade of white is the same at night. A peace flag, held up by the sailor in the back, the one with the longest and strongest paddle.

They were not supposed t know they were watched. They were not supposed to acknowledge Kyoshi.

Biyi's deliberating, she could tell. "Do we attack?" She asked, sending a look at her girls to ready themselves. It was easy to imagine the sound of fans shuddering in the air, washed away by columns of water, though she had never seen a waterbender at work. 

"Do we?" Biyi asked, stare keen and steady in the intruders. "What do you think?"

Suki considered this. So this was the final test. It was the heaviest decision she had been given responsibility for so far. "

We do not know their objective." She did not like the thought of these strangers in their thin boat stepping on her sand. Letting them go without answers was worse, though. "We will not know it unless we let them approach."

Biyi turned those dark, pale eyes of hers on Suki, and she was suddenly reminded there were whispers that Biyi's family had air bending blood in them, and so some sight for spiritual matters. Suki stood still as stone and looked back, chin high, shoulders respectful.

Then Biyi turned to Chen. "White flag," she ordered, but shock her head when she held it out. The flag went to Suki, handle smooth worn wood beneath the fabric of her gloves. 

She lifted her arm and waved, watching as a short girl and a boy jumped to the shore. For a moment the waterbender who had stood this whole time, stood against the fat moon, most so much a girl but an impression of a girl. Together they leaned back to the ship, turning their back on the island in a show of trust or stupidity, and the boy picked up something with an audible grunt. A thump on the beach lifted sand in a small cloud. A box, sealed tight, and clearly heavy. So the intruders had come to negotiate, then, or trade. 

Biyi lead the Kyoshi Warriors to the middle of the beach. Suki walked barely a step behind her and familiarized herself with the weight of this responsibility. 

Suki's chest trembled under her armor. Always it was the heart that betrayed a warrior, but this did not feel like a betrayal. It felt like change, and chance, and sailing away on faraway boats. 

 

 


	5. interlude: druk

 

Druk was warm.

They could not tell how long they had been warm, for there was no time in their shell. Only that there had been cold and darkness, and now there was a warmth around them and light beneath their lids. It was not sleep, but a slumber of embers and slow simmering. The fire in their chest was hot; from theirs nostrils escaped warmed air. The shell of their egg cracked, just the smallest bit, just the slightest hint of the world beyond. 

Druk very much longed to see it. 

Dragon memory was an old, odd thing. It came with the wings, hollow bones made up with a marrow of heavy truths, with the eyes that knew the color of sky before knowing light. Not the mockery weak human sight glimpsed, but the truest of blues, the blue of the older dragons. There were many truths the dragons kept, and this one one of them: the sky had an hidden color all of its own. They were not supposed to know this, but they did. Not just because they were the last of their kind, but because they _remembered_ , and memory made it easier to know. 

Druk knew they were young and unhatched, and the last of their kind besides. There would be no mother to breathe fire on them, no nest-mates to play-fight with. They did not care for that lack; it was not for these thing that they longed. They were a firebender's dragon, and their eyes were filled with the sky, and his scales longed for some specific, frail human hands.

Dragon memory was an old, odd thing, and Druk's oldest and oddest than most. They were not the first, but not the last, he knew. Not for long.

Druk remembered, and believed, and trusted. They would not have to wait long now


	6. smellerbee

 

Jet is her leader, and The Duke is her best mate, but Smellerbee's hero is the Blue Spirit, no questions asked.

It's become a bit of a joke with the others. Jet shoves the wante posters at her after a raid in the village and they all laugh at her spluttered denials. But none of them steal the curled up scrolls in her hiding place, and they always tell her what news they hear. The Duke has his bow and Jet has his straw and Smellerbee has posters of the Fire Nation's most wanted fugitive.

They make do with what they have.

This is, she never expected to meet them so soon. They would, eventually, because one day Jet's ambition would burn too bright for Gaipan and ot would fall, and they'd go on to greater prizes, save other cities. There were occasional news of revolutionary groups and they might meet them too, but Smellerbee didn't like to think about that. Jet had been furious when he'd heard her and the other's talk about them, questioned their loyalty to him and the cause. Weren't they brave enough to stand on their own feet? But if they really wanted to try their luck and set out to fi d some cowardly graybeards hiding away they were free to do it, but they shouldn't expect to be welcomed back.

Of course they'd said no. Of course they stood with Jet, they always would, and he was right, they didn't need anyone. Much less adults, with their ideas and their caution.

It had been a stupid idea, anyway. They were far too busy dealing with the noisy local bending vigillante to daydream about meeting spirit guardians.

It was only when the spirt guardian and the bendin vigillante paired up that things became strange. 

"When," Jet started, in that tone of voice that meant his displeasure was going to grow no matter the answer, "did the Blue Spirit and the Blind Bandit even have time to meet?" 

"See, that's a funny story," started the Blue Spirit. Smellerbee had never heard a spirit speak before, but their voice was deep and rough with fire-hurt. She had known people with voices like that all her life. 

She just hadn't thought she'd find one of them here. The lone shack in the woods belonged to the Rebels (so Smellerbee firmly believed), but the King's Law said it was property of the Bei Fong family (or so some musty old scroll said). What mattered was that it was the headquarters of the Blind Bandit's gang of one since she'd started her vigillante activities. The Freedom Fighters were sort of welcome there, as long as Jet wasn't a bastard, and they were by often, supposedly to 'scoop information from an unknwon entity breeching our territory', and mostly because she was funny and didn't call them out for stealing her food. 

Hearing Jet talk, the Blind Bandit was the worst thing that had happened to their group; not because he didn't think she was awesome and did great work fighting the Fire Nation scum, but because she couldn't be bothered to obey anyone.

Smellerbee had been there when Jet had offered a place with them. She'd laughed in his face. She had also given Snellerbee tips on how not to walk so loudly, but Smellerbee wasn't gonna be soft to her just 'cause of that.

Smellerbee liked the Blind Bandit almost as much as she envied her, for many reasons. One of which was that she'd somehow managed to find the Blue Spirit and have him drink tea with her. And the Rebels, even if only The Duke was sipping the tea, tiny cup huge in his hands. 

"Yeah, if by funny you mean stupid," countered the Blind Bandit, "and if by stupid you mean _the most idiotic thing I have ever seen_." 

"It wasn't stupid," and now the Blue Spirit sounded peeved, but the embarrased curve of his shoulders told another story.

"Putting yourself in front of a demon on the hunt is _always_ stupid, Sparky," she said unflinchingly. Somehow the Blue Bandit gave the impression of scowling without anyone seeing it.  

"Our demon?" Jet asked immediately. He was frowning. His angry frown, not a hint of a smirk around the mouth. 

"No, Wheat-Boy, my personal pet demon. What demon do you think we're talking about?" Sniped the Blind Bandit. Jet put doen his elbows on the table, she leaned forward, and after that there was no stopping them. 

Really, Jet had been much nicer when he'd tought himself king of the region. Then again, there hadn't been so many demon sightings in ages, and they were all tired and stretched thin from keeping guard over the forest. They had a rotation and everything, Sneers and the others were there at the moment, and thanks to them none of the village people got bothered by the spiritual activity. As long as they paid Jet's thyte, everything ran smoothly.

If they managed to trick Fire Nation soldiers into being eaten by the demons, then it was the best way to appease the monsters, and more than fair besides. The Blind Bandit  had _thoughts_ about the thyte, and opinions about feeding the demon Firebending worms. The last they'd seen of her she'd trapped Jet and Sneers under a rock prison and left to deal with the demon. Longshot and Smellerbee had been close enough away that Jet had reamed them a new one for letting her go, but really, the Blue Bandit could be crazy silent when she wanted to, and terrible when she was pissed off. 

The Blue Spirit wasn't sensible either, apparently, because they'd met while demon hunting and he'd been convinced to come back for tea. He didn't drink, but that was only smart of him. 

As Jet and the Blind Bandit kept arguing, and The Duke started humming to himself to drown them out, Smellerbee and Longshot took their chance. As one, they turned in their chairs towards the Blue Spirit.  

Smellerbee narrowed her eyes. "So you were the one who killed the demon, then?" 

"That was me," he agreed quietly. 

Longshot had taught Smellerbee to watch people, see the way their bodies spoke, and they'd made a game out of it. He said she was quite good at it, so she looked him up and down and squinted. The Blue Spirit wore, like the name promised, blue, but it was a blue so dark the die had to be crazy expensive. Their face was as awesome as promised, the teeth very realistic in the shadows, but she had to admit to being more than a little dissapointed by how clearly it was a mask. She'd have loved to meet a spirit. Jet said they were only tales, and he was usually right.

Still. If it _was_ a normal person under the costume, a non-bender, that was even more impressive. Even if, standing still and holding a cup of thin, pretty clay, their stance was sheepish and not very impressive.

She and Longshot traded a look. She blinked, he tilted his head to the left, she wrinkled his nose, he lifted his right eyebrow. They nodded at the same time and stared back at the Blue Spirit. The mask stared back, bemused.  

"Alright," she finally said. "The demon was more trouble than it was worth anyway."

"Alright," he echoed. Then he lifted the teapot and offered it to Smellerbee and Longshot. "More tea?"

They had more tea. 

 


	7. sokka

Once, the world had made sense.

Well, Sokka's world had made sense. He had had chores and training and fishing, his own space in village life while Dad and the men were away. He had just been getting comfortable in the role when Katara's weird water magic turned out to be evenweirder water magic. There had also been something about the moon spirit and tides returning, but Sokka had chalked it up as superstitious nonsense and tried to deal with things in a reasonable, rational way.

There's a point where deniso becomes delusion, though. Sokka put too much stock in his ability to think sensibly to keep telling himself there was no way his sister had memories of a past life. 

Well, in that regard he was right. It wasn't a past life, apparently. A might-have-been life. That wasn't much better, in his opinion, but it proved useful sometimes. At least her knowledge wasn't as outdated as the rest of the Southern Water Tribe. And, he had to admit, her water magic was much better these days. 

It was possible that Sokka was impressed. _Maybe_. Not intimidared at all, no sir. Anyway, it still didn't mean Katara could just go prance around the ice frields on her own, right before a storm. She had probably known it was coming, too. Katara might be a snow-witch like the ones from Gran-Gran's tales, but she was still Katara and that meant she was more atubborns than an ostritch-mule. 

It also meant that she was the little sister Sokka had gone out to find and was therefore completely at fault for this situation. 

"This is completely Katara's fault," he told the ghost.

It ignored him, because of course it did. "Where's Kya?" It asked. It had been asking the same question for ages, so he didn't pay attention either.

"Shush, you don't get to complain, you're dead," said Sokka. That didn't make as much sense out loud. If he were dead he'd complain about it to anyone involved, but then again if he were dead he wouldn't be this cold. 

There was a ghost in front of him. It had been here since he'd came across the abandoned ice-house and broke through the ice in the door woth his boomerang. It had been there the moment he had staggered inside the house and looked up to find it staring at him _right in his face_. He knew it was a ghost because it was almost see-though and because his hand passed through mist, a strange cold clinging to his gloves when he tried to poke it.

He had yelled "Stay back!" or something to that effect. It was not a girly screech, thank you very much. It was a very manly screech.

The ghost had only kept staring at him, only now it was tilting its head. It was disturbingly adorable. "What was that for?"

"What was that for? What are you here for?"

It kept on frowning. Why was it frowning? Was it going to curse him? Katara would never let him down if he was cursed by the ghost of a little girl.

"I'm looking for Kya," it repeated. It peered up at him curiously; her coat flickered when a warmer wind passed through. Because it was a ghost. Sokka was having a hard time accepting that. Spirits travelling through time were one thing, it had to do with the phases of moon and La and Tui, but _ghosts_. 

"I don't know any Kyas," he lied. The ghost had crossed its arms and glared right through his dice-poker face, and if that wasn't sad he didn't know what was.

"You're lying," it said eerily, without hesitation.

Sokka bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. If he couldn't bluff his way out of this spirit encounter, he'd just have to be careful. It had probably been a bad idea to lie at it anyway. "I'm not going to tell you anything," he said, projecting as much cpnfidence as he could manage. It only made the ghost look doen sadly, and made him feel like a bully. But he'd kept silent, very determinedly pretending there wasn't anyone beside him, because there _shouldn't_ be. The spirit of his mother's best friend was supposed to be gone to wherever it was spirits went. The Spirit World, probably.

Katara would know. Or not, since she wasn't there and she had died once before. Sokka hadn't asked questions about that, just everything else, and Katara had been miserly with anwers. He was regretting not asking now. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know if there was anything after death, but it seemed like simething he ought to know, now that he was likely to starve while playing deaf with a ghost. 

Sokka didn't want to die. He didnt know for sure if he was going to die, but unless the snowstorm let up much earlier than he thought it would or someone found him, he was done for. 

"You're not going to die," the ghost said.

 _"_ Oh, great. Now you're reading my mind too," he grumbled. He knew it was a bad idea to sit down in the cold ground, it was barely warmer inside the shelter, but he was tired of standing up. He was tired of waiting to be saved. Hep knew water was supoosed to be resourceful and its people patient, but he was hungry and cold and afraid and if he wanted to sit down while talking to a ghost, he would sit down, burn it.

"I'm not reading your mind, silly. I'm dead, not magic." It said. She. _Nini_ said. Sokka remembered the stories about his mother's old childhood friend, her saddened face as she told them about playing games with Nini and the snowstorm that had blocked Nini and her family for weeks. Katara had nearly been named Nini, but their parent's had decided it would be bad luck. Katara deserved a living name, Kya had said, and Hakoda had agreed. Sokka had been young, and not much convincved that the screaming purple baby was any good, but he recalled that. 

"Sure, dead, not magic. Big difference."

"it is," argued Nini when he scoffed. What he could distinguish of her features looked disgruntled. It was hard to tell, they were blurred, like rippled water. It was dark, too. The ice-house smelled of cold and dirt and old, old fur. There were bones, too, but Sokka tried not to look at them. 

All at once Sokka felt guilty. It wasn't Nini's fault that she was dead and he was going to die in this cursed place. She was even younger than Katara had been, when she'd -- remembered, or whatever it had been. "Sorry. I just. I was hoping to see Suki again."

He'd been trying not to think about that, too, but now that he said it he felt even more wretched.

Nini leaned closer. His eyes told him she had to have leaned closer, because she was closer now, and he refused to believe she hadn't had to lean to be closer. "Who's Sukki?"

"She's from Kyoshi Island. She's a warrior, a great warrior. But she's a girl, too. She said it herself, and then she kicked my ass. I've been training with the moves she taught me, wanted to show her I was better at it now. Maybe next time I'd take longer to hit the mat." Sokka felt his face twist into a smile but he didn't care. For a time he didn't feel so cold, and the storm didn't sound so terribly silent outside. 

In fact, it was loud outside. There was the sound of ice cracking, voices breaking through the hush of the snow, not just the quiet winds that meant a deadly snowstorm. 

Suddenly, Nini was right by the door. "There's Kya. Kya!" 

Sokka scrambled to his feet, yelled, "wait, no, Nini! It's not Kya!" But Nini was gone, had walked right through the wall. Sokka was still boggling when the door was ripped away and Katara's profile stood against the white glare of the storm.

"Sokka!" She cried and walked closer, right through Nini. "What were you thinking? Didn't you see the clouds?"

He spluttered, words tripping iver themselves, before he got them straight. "Me? What were _you_ thinking! I don't care if you're the best waterbender to ever bend in the history of bender, Katara, you don't go out alone before a snowstorm." She blinked, withdrawing her hands from his shoulders. She looked almost hurt, and, viciously,  he thought _good_ , feeling bad even as he thought it. 

"You aren't Kya," said Nini sadly. 

"I told you so," he agreed, but not smugly. He really wasn't happy to be right about this. "I wish I could take you to Kya, Nini, but she's gone."

Katara squinted. "Who are you talking to? What about Mom?"

He looked between Katara and Nini and back. Sokka had a deep, sinking feeling he refused to acknowledge. He'd been refusing to acknowledge a lot of stuff, like how he had known Katara was different from the beggining and how the moonlight had guided him unerringly to shelter. Sokka liked his life simple and logical. There was no way he would be having this conversation in a simpler, more logical world. 

But this was all the world he had to work with, and burn it if he was going to willingly let go of his rational thinking. 

"Oh, come on. You're spirit-touched and everything! How come you can't see the ghost?"

"She can't," said Nini, turning towards him with that movement that wasn't really a movement. Her face was very young and very serious, and, strangely, very hopeful as she looked at him. "But _you_ can."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very very much to you all who read or left kudos or comments. without your support this wouldn't exist.


	8. bumi

  
Omashu's people knew their king was insane. Most of they took it as a baffling but somewhat endearing fact of life. Earth was the mightiest element, the war had been going on for far too long, and King Bumi was insane.

They wouldn't think it so endearing if they knew their crazy king was in talks with the enemy, but part of Bumi's job was to make sure that what they knew didn't hurt them much and what they didn't know didn't hurt them at all. If that meant he got to sample some of the best tea this side of the Earth Kingdom, he wasn't complaining.

"This is great tea."

"Thank you," Prince Zuko said with a humble tilting of the head. "My Uncle taught me the art."

"He did, did he? Eh, Iroh always did like to keep his belly warm. That's what he used to say, anyway. Better tea than fire, but then you can never be too picky when it comes to the Dragon of the West. I don't suppose you have biscuits?"

"No."

"What a pity."

If Bumi had really wanted biscuits, he could slide one of the many secret alarm systems in the king's sleeping chambers. Any sane man would have done that, if they had awakened to find a shadowy vigillante in their room, even if they had unmasked themselves. Especially if they had unmasked themselves and revealed the face of the enemy's wayward heir, asking for a moment of his time and bearing a pot of tea.

They both knew that. Instead he took a sip of his tea. _White lotus_ tea. Bumi had cackled when he'd recognized the smell, and continued cackling when the Prince had made a hilarious face at the earthbent chair suddenly pushing his knees and under his rump. No doubt Iroh was somewhere nearby with a smirk. The old firecracker had always been an irreverent one; turned out, the nephew took after the uncle. Even if he wasn't nearly as subtle. It took a lot of guts and no little stealth to sneak inside the King of Omashu's quarters, much less the daring-dos word of mouth attributed to the Blue Spirit. There were doubters, of course, but Bumi wasn't one of them.

Which didn't mean he wasn't going to put him through his own tests.

"So Ozai's has to deal with a Returnee Spirit during his reign. About time one of your ilk showed up, if you don't kind me saying. What does the cranky viper-lizard think of it?"

"He is unaware." Zuko did not fidget, but his jaw muscles moved under the skin of his scar. Nasty business, that. No wonder he used a mask. Even ignoring the scarring, his face was far too expressive. There was royal training there, decorum and all that nonsense, but his eyes narrowed often and his lips pursed before he spoke.

"Oh, I'm sure he knows about the Blue Spirit. Omashu has been having some troubles with mountain-demons. Nothing we can't handle, of course, but I've heard that it's rather more chaotic in the Fire Nation colonies. All those angry ghosts and restless dead armies raging for justice." Bumi picked up his cup, little finger daintily to the side, and sipped carefully. "Whether he knows it's his son, though, now that's the one thousand golden coins question."

"No." Zuko said simply over the rim of his cup. "We aren't on speaking terms."

Bumi ogled the scar and guffawed."Ah, I bet!"

Any fire-blooded young thing would have been furious, but this one swallowed and lifted his lips depreciatively. Completely fake, of course, but not outright defense. Interesting.

Iroh had written to the high members of the White Lotus about his nephew's changes. He hadn't proposed any theory out of personal loyalty and caution, but Bumi could read between the lines. More importantly, he could read the earth, the land that was his to rule and protect. More than any other element, Earth had a direct relationship with the Spirit World. Both realms of existence hadn't touched so close to the surface of the earth for hundreds and hundreds of years.

"Why the Blue Spirit? It's a sad tale." The ancient lay of the Blue Spirit had been forbidden by Azulon, as many other tales had been. Anything that stunk of peace time and introduced the insidious foolishness of harmony was to be in great pyres in the Caldera's avenues, and in every Fire Nation town too. In many ways those fired had been more descriptive than all the others.

"I didn't think you would know it." Lie. Or at least not a truth. The boy would have spent too long with Iroh not to expect eccentric old men to know more than they seemed. Unless he was also smart enough to realize they did not know as much as they liked to pretend they didn't know.

  
Usually it took personal experience to come to that conclusion. But then, this wasn't a young man and if Bumi was a gambling man, which he was, mostly because he coukd cheat like nobody's business, he'd say Zuko had far more years under his belt than that unlined forehead revealed. 

"You know us old folks. We have long memories for small things." Let him take it as an insult if he wanted. He didn't, but his change shifted. The granite of his chair sang of impatience, frustration tempered with curiosity. "It was a good song. Lots of debts and honor duels and heroes angsting over their life choices. Could have used more down to earth good sense, but it's always like that with the stories of your people. But I don't think you came here to talk folk songs with an old, if admittedly brilliant, old man."

Zuko didn't make his petition all at once. First he set down the fine porcelain. Looked down at the mask in his lap, fingered the features of wood that mirrored his own precisely, minus the scar and the eyes.

Then he looked up, and his face was mangled by fire and his eyes were the yellow of a slow restless flame. It someone had never seen a firebender before they might think it was a normal color; if they seen a firebender they would know it was not. Firebenders tended to favor ruddy oranges and bright goldens. In the dark his eyes were very pale and luminescent.

Bumi remembered Kuzon's scaly friend too well to mistake them for anything but what they were. Still, it had been almost a century since he had seen a dragon smile like that.

"How did you become the King of Omashu?"

Bumi grinned widely. A question for a question was a good trade, as long as you milked it for what it was worth. This one, he could tell, would be a treasure. "By being a mad genius. How did you become King of the Fire Nation?"

"I had the help of a few mad geniuses. From a king to another, and on behalf of a mutual friend, how would you feel about visiting the Southern Air Temple?"

 

 

 


	9. ty lee

 

 

 

"Tell me a tale."

Ty Lee blinked. Once, she would have known whether it was an order, because it could have been nothing else coming from Azula.

"What kind of tale? A grand adventure? A romance between star-crossed lovers?" Ty Lee made a face. " A scary one?"

"Not a scary one," Azula said, which was strange because Azula always liked the scary tales best, he ones with blood and betrayal and great insidious victories that kept Ty Lee awake for nights after hearing them. "I want an old one. A spirit tale."

Ty Lee smoothed her frown before it could form. Mai was usually the ones liked the old, long ones, but Mai wasn't here now. She had gone to sleep in their shared quarters, not far from Azula's rooms. They were never far from Azula these days.

They took turns, Ty Lee and Mai. The guards were loyal to Ozai but he hadn't forbidden his daughter from having visitors. He hadn't forbidden her anything, really, except leaving her rooms in the palace, and speaking with anyone he had not authorized contact with.

"At least it isn't the Boiling Rock," Mai had told her in the first days after Ty Lee had returned from the circus, nails still dusty and head swimming with the changes at court. The decorations were the same, as heavy and dark as before, and the spring flowers were blooming by the turtle-duck's pond. But the air was different. Too still, more dangerous than court life usually was.

"What does that mean?" She asked Mai when they were alone in a corridor, before she went to see Azula. And then, after she came out of the room, she turned to Mai and asked what had happened to their Princess. Mai had not had an answer on either occasion.

Ty Lee longed to do a headstand. It always helped her to think better, but Azula was impossible to gauge, and you never knew what would set her of. She contented herself for falling beside her on the bed with a roll, ending belly on the covers and looking up at Azula.

Ty Lee had kept smiling, all these weeks, through the worst of the fits and the stilted moments of peace. She knew Azula expected to see her smiling, even if it was a lie, but she wasn't smiling now. Spirit tales were serious business. She never though Azula would learn that lesson, but maybe she hadn't had enough faith in the Princess.

Or maybe the circumstances had just changed that much.

"Alright," she started slowly, settling herself in lotus position. Back straight, hands open, eyes looking towards the window. Ty Lee fiercely believed that a spirit tale was always better told and better learned if one were looking up at their favorite thing. For most people in the Fire Nation that was the fire; for Ty Lee it was the sky, darkening like a ripe plum, or a bruise, or a pretty violeg.

Summer was ending, and autumn would soon be upon the Fire Nation. It would be a cold one, long too. Ty Lee could hear it in the singing of the winds, in how the trees warned each other to dig their roots deeply.

Ty Lee started with the traditional opening, modulating her voice to a lower and cadenced tone "This tale that I will tell you happened a long time ago, when dragons hunted the clouds, and the mountains walked. There was war, as there always is, and peace, as there always must be.

This is a tale of spirits, who walk among us, who are inside of us. May they be look upon us with friendship and mercy."

Azula's eyes twitched, lashes brushing her knife-sharp cheeks. Displeased with the unexpected, or just surprised? Ty Lee could have gone for the High Style, but spirit tales were always better told in the Low Style. In the High Style, it went 'may they look upon us with favor and respect'. A clever change that, when written down, ended up with the character for 'respect' being one very close to the one for 'awe'. Truly, Azulon's Cultural Revision System had been very through.

Ty Lee wasn't supposed to pay attention to things like that; but then, no one would think it strange that such a fluff-headed girl would have a love for old love stories. Never mind that they were about more than love, and that love was never not dangerous.

"And it came to pass that in those days the sun, who did not yet have a name, shone down upon a small fishing village. The people there were honest and hardworking, and through their kindness to the spirits, and the intersection of their devotion to nature, they were found worthy of many boons and good luck.

So the village flourished, and the people of the village gave the spirits their thanks, for their fishing boats were full with good fat fish, and their children were healthy and favored by fire. Though their village was small, it grew steadily, indeed far more quickly than it could be expected of such a remote place.

One day the Lord of the land, with his retinue of warriors and servants, passed through the village, for in those days there was no one Fire Lord to unite the land, but many Lords of Fire, each of them with their court and holdfast; but even so, they traveled often for politics and war. It happened that this Lord of Fire was a young man of great honor, strong in character and bending, whose life had been filled with many quests and learning through pain. His closest companion was a sage old dragon from the West Islands; from his father he had inherited many enemies and little peace.

Yet it was peace that he found in that small village. But a strange peace he did not recognize, for the people from this small river-clan prayed words unknown to his ears. The Lord of Fire observed them in their worship for some days, noticing every day something curious to stare at. In time he went to the Chieftain and asked her about her people's odd ways.

And the Chieftain told him: that in this village all those who wished to learn and pray could, not just firebenders. There was a certain their firebenders prayed four times a day, once to the promise of dawn, then noon for the full potential of light, once again to the peace of dusk, and at night also, so that the spirits would know that he was not loved any less in the darkness, and that their faith did not falter with the weakening of the sun.

"You do not pray only to Agni, as is the way of the land," he asked, for he was displeased with any deviation from his Law.

"No," said the Chieftain, for she was brave, and unafraid of speaking the truth. "We pray to all spirits, so that They may all smile at us."

"Even the night spirits, Those that curse travelers and howl in the wind?"

"Yes," answered the Chieftain. "For is it not at night that light is more precious, and fire more welcome? We must give thanks to the moon, that reveals hidden paths to tired travelers, and the stars, that share their beauty and chase away fear."

To this the Lord of Fire had little to say. In time he spoke:

"Those are practices strange to me and mine. Who was it that decided to act so, and why do so many follow these ways, and to such beneficent results?"

"I did," the Chieftain said. ""This was why I was named Chieftain of the Village, when the last one died. It is my home that is a house of learning now, and these people you see here are my students and followers. I did not mean to start a new way, nor was it my wish to be Chieftain, but they asked for my help and guidance; and I am not one to ever turn a back on those who have need of me.

"This is not in accordance to the Law of the land," The Fire Lord said. He was much intrigued, however, and besotted with the Chieftain's great wisdom and flashing eyes. He stayed in the village for a long time afterwards, eating and praying with the Chieftain and her people.

He debated at length everyday with her, and at night they sat under the moon and spoke some more, of matter closer to the heart. They shared with each other their longings and grieves. Though they did not always agree in the day, they found respect and friendship growing between them at night, which in time lead to a sweet love that bound them together every hour of the day."

  
"Ugh," Azula groaned. "I thought I told you I did not want to listen to a silly love tale."

"And it's not," Ty Lee said patiently, though she really wanted to roll her eyes. Azula had no true appreciation for storytelling solemnity. "Silly, I mean."

Azula snorted. "You'd think that." She leaned backwards, relaxing against her pillows, not caring that she had hurt Ty Lee. She didn't look like she cared, anyway; but Azula had been different for some time now, in good and bad ways both, and so Ty Lee wasn't entirely surprised when she softened her voice a little. "Anyway, it's not a spirit tale either. There hasn't been any spirits so far. It's only talking and philosophy and budding romance. Worse than Uncle's stories."

Azula's face darkened as her thoughts turned to Iroh. Her gaze went distant soon enough, and even her scowl faded into a deep, uneasy thoughtfulness. Ty Lee swallowed, looking around the room in search for a distraction. It wouldn't work, as previous attempts had showed, any attempt at deceit, even friendly one, would only bring out the worst of Azula's temper.

Silence helped, though, more than words. Ty Lee understood that, even if she didn't like it, or experience it. The air spoke to her too often for her to know what true quiet was.

Because Ty Lee was lively and good-natured and because people tended to forget that did not mean she was foolish, noticed how the courtiers walked a little faster and the servants a little quieter. The Fire Lord had become more withdrawn than ever, and the door to the throne room was kept closed at all times. When he met with his servants it was in his rooms, and no one knew what they spoke of. But the gossip grew and kept growing, like smoke in a solstice festival, strange dangerous shapes out of murky darkness.

And, of course, there was Azula. Ty Lee would have known something was different with Azula even if she were not her friend.

But she was her friend. Even if Azula wasn't a true friend, she was Ty Lee's. And Ty Lee, like the Chieftain, tried to do well by her people, even mad Princesses.

It wasn't madness, really. The healers snd the Fire Sages agreed on that, if nothing else. It was what came after a long madness, when the fractured ruins of sanity settled together into a new, skewed shape. Like shards of a mirror, coming together inside an old frame.

A cold breeze shock the small screen window. Ty Lee did a gentle somersault on her way to opening it, enjoying for a small moment the touch of the cool afternoon air in her face. She wan't supposed to open the window, the guards said so, but this once she needed to remember that she was free.

When she turned around Azula startled. She had been leaning with her face in her elbow, but now she straightened, and then pretended she had not startled by glaring at her.

This was how she always reacted, when the lapses in awareness were short: by ruthlessly pretending they hadn't happened.

"It was a boring tale, anyway. " Azula declared, breaking the quiet. That was a lie, though only Ty Lee knew it.

Leaning closer, she couldn't resist curling up and rolling in the bed, ending up looking up at Azula through her legs, head cocked to the side, before sitting in the bed again, this time a little closer.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I was about to get to the best part."

Azula scoffed. "What, the wedding?"

"No," Ty Lee said, and smiled again. It was hard to, when Azula sounded so much like herself. "Spirits are necessary for weddings, though they can bless a good match. I meant what came after the wedding."

"Babies?" Azula offered dryly. But Ty Lee nodded earnestly.

"Yes, babies, a village full of them. A whole lifetime together, in war and peace. And afterwards, when they were old and grey, they died, one after the other, so close in time that no one remembers which one died first. It was tragic."

"I'm sure."

Ty Lee went on as if she had not heard her. "Well, it was. And it is said--

What is said?" Azula asked, and if she did not sound as uninterest as she wanted to, it was only because Ty Lee was, objectively, a decent storyteller.

"I thought this was a silly tale?" Ty Lee teased, eyes bright with mischief, and ducked her head to hide her grin at the flame in Azula's hand. "Alright, alright, I'll finish 'Zula, don't get your topknot in a twist."

Ty Lee dodged the thrown pillow easily. When it became clear that Azula was waiting, eyebrows raised expectantly, she continued.

Azula might be changed; autumn might be aproaching, But Ty Lee knew her friend, and she knew that Azula could be very thick sometimes. So she spoke more softly than ever before, willed her words to be heard, and, with any luck, understood.

"Not every version of the tale is the same, but they all agree that something happened when they died. All of their children and their children's children were very sad, of course, and since they made up most of the village by then, the river itself could not be deaf to their grief. The land was in mourning for a whole season, it is said, and the spirits themselves cried for their passing. Their lives had been long, and hard, but memorable for all the right reasons, in the terms spirits use for reckoning such things; which, in the end, is not so differently than how we humans do it,

Their memory lives on today, in stories, in the village, in the land also. As ghosts, some say, or protector-spirits, clad in the veils and blue mask of the old marriage garments of the time. Others claim that the Moon and the Sun are named after them, or that they are the ancestors of the current Firelords.  
  
Even if none of this is true, none of it is wrong either. We all have the ability ro mark the world  deeply, for better or worse, that our voices repeat again and again. Like a song, or an old tale, but one without an ending. Spirits don't die, you see? Not really."

"I most certainly do not see," Azula said, but her eyes were going distant again, and very bright. Ty Lee settled beside her and waited for her to come back.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://searchingforserendipity25.tumblr.com)


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